


Dormant

by KupalaNight



Series: Once Upon a Falling Star [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Evil Shiro (Voltron), Evil(?) Fairy Shiro, M/M, Prince Keith (Voltron), Sleeping Beauty AU, fairy tale AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-07-18 02:29:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16108904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KupalaNight/pseuds/KupalaNight
Summary: Never had there been a more joyful, musical first day of Spring than the day the Champion met the future King.  And never did such a happy day turn so somber, so suddenly.





	1. Ave Princeps

**Author's Note:**

> Sup. This is the first story in a series of Sheith Fairy Tales, Myths, and Legends AUs.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr @ Kupala-Night.tumblr.com

Never had there been a more joyful, musical first day of Spring than the day the Champion met the future King.  And never did such a happy day turn so somber, so suddenly.

From the moment the sun broke over the city walls, organs blared and trumpets roared. Every bell in every sanctuary, high and low, heralded the little Prince’s introduction to the world. 

_“Rejoicing now, to our future King we come!  Bringing gifts and good wishes, too - We pledge our loyalty anew!”_

The monks chanted and the minstrels plucked at their lutes.  The nobles sang along, a few half-drunk already, as they road into the castle across the wide mote on horses whose very hooves were lined with gold. At the back, in a line winding outside the walls and into the forest came the gypsy caravans, jingling their tambourines so loudly that the sound was later said to have seeped into the trees, bringing legend to the Wood.

Castle banner-men hoisted scarlet flags, red as fresh blood with a lion’s head stitched into the fabric.  The way the beasts had their fangs bared gave off the illusion that they roared down at the subjects below.  Said subjects, young and old, human or otherwise, looked up at these flags and crossed their hearts in allegiance to the Kogane dynasty.

_“Ave Princeps! Long live the Prince!”_

It was more than happiness.  It was Absolute Triumph.

It was the People’s worship of the bloodline that freed the Kingdom.  A House thought to be completely decimated until several years ago. A House of only one person - now two - who, against all odds, took back the throne from Evil Incarnate after one hundred years of Zarkon’s reign.

Heath Kogane had even won over the Powers of Good to his side.  Magical beings had fought in the name of Humanity, cleansing the earth of the Galra demon invaders and reclaiming the war-ravaged, suffering land.

_“Health to the Prince.  Wealth to the Prince.  Hail to the rightful Prince, Keith Kogane!”_

It was the first spring in a century free from the reign of the Galra.  Zarkon had been long-since vanquished, Lotor had been beheaded in battle, and Heath Kogane and the Princess Allura of the Alteans had agreed to join forces and defend the land side-by-side on the throne.

Inside the Castle of Lions, the very air itself practically dripped with spices, incense, and essence of rose.  Servants rushed alongside the corridors, striving and failing to be discreet as they hefted trays of meats, fresh breads, and pitchers of honeyed wine in a seemingly never-ending procession.  Once every so often, a page boy would drop an expensive gift and get his ears boxed for it.

But upon entering the Great Hall, the line of guests that earlier began so riotously on the road to the palace flowed in with the same quiet hush as in a House of Worship. For on that day, it truly was a House of Worship.  All with beating hearts and breath in their lungs waited their turn to kneel in prayer at the foot of the throne.

This time, however, they were not kneeling for the King and Queen - instead, they bowed in reverence at the cradle before them, and more specifically, at the baby boy asleep within.  Behind him stood his father, both hands clasped at the head of the crib and nodding softly in gratitude at each guest who knelt before his son.  His smile was gentle as always, yet there was a sadness in his eyes, as if his heart was in mourning.  The Queen was seated on her throne well-behind them both, glittering with jewels that seemed like mere trinkets on a person so imposing.  She was murmuring gravely to three armored figures at attention beside her.  They stood close enough to raise several eyebrows among those foreign enough not to recognize them as the Paladins.

The stone walls were draped in red velvet, and the lions on the tapestries glared down ruthlessly at visiting nobles, gentry, and soldiers, alike, daring any guests to lay a single finger on their newest royal.  Even those in the crowd being Other than human, and able to wield powers one can only call Magic, bowed their heads in deference, and continued whispering their blessings to the Sleeping Beauty.

Truth be told, the little Prince did not look much like either Monarch.  Instead of the his father’s gentle, square features or the Queen’s silver mane and deep complexion, his downy hair and long lashes were decidedly black, while his skin was pale.  In sleep, his face had a seriousness about it that belonged to a grown man at work - He kept his lips pinched shut and there was a little wrinkle between his bows, as if he was trying to concentrate on the bothersome task of dreaming.  Occasionally, the child would give an irritated huff, and his father would then chuckle down at him and shake his head at bittersweet memories.

By evening, as the sun was bleeding red in preparation to set for the day, every guest had finished their prayers and it was then the three Paladins’ turn to give their blessings.

These blessings, however, were unlike any of the others.  The seemingly young warriors lining shoulder-to-shoulder before the Prince had been trained in the art of power that even they, themselves, did not fully understand - despite decades of having channeled it in battle.

First, the woman of the three stepped forth.  Her partners called her Pidge, and she was small-boned, with hair cut short like a boy’s and inquisitive, clever eyes.  She shifted uncomfortably and cleared her throat, but pressed forth, nonetheless.

“To be King, you will need the strength to make hard choices.  Choices that burden the heart and haunt the mind.  Keith - May you have the gift of Courage.”

She laid a hand on the Prince’s head, and closed her eyes to focus before nodding at the King and Queen and turning back to her partners.

 _“I wanted to make him brave!  What do I do, now?”_ whispered the thinner, lankier of the two men to the woman, who hissed back that _this is why they should have practiced, Lance._

Queen Allura stared on reproachfully.

Lance’s other partner - Hunk, the third Paladin - gave him an absentminded pat on the back before sauntering forward to the cradle.

Though Hunk was a very large man, he did not bear his size with confidence.  However, upon looking down at the Prince, his mouth broke into a smile so warm and sincere, it made onlookers forget it was sundown.

This was a man whose kindness no hardship could quell.  One could simply tell. 

He put one finger on the baby’s small chest.  The boy slept on.

“Oh, I see you, little friend.  You’ve got a heart, and it’s good as gold and strong as steel.  Don’t fear it.  Trust it. Use it to rebuild this war-torn land. May you have the gift of Empathy.”

And back he came to Pidge and Lance, who were whispering between each other about what the third and final gift should be.

Until _\- craaack - !_

_Thunder._

Onlookers shifted, and began inching towards the transepts of the hall, crowding to peer through the stained glass.

Hunk frowned. “It didn’t look like rain . . . ”

“It might not be.” Pidge answered, the color leaving her face.  “We knew what could happen - ”

Another clap of thunder, and a thin crack began to trail down one of the stained glass windows. 

Queen Allura’s advisor, Coran, burst into the Hall.  “The bridge has been severed!” he called,  “Prepare yourselves.”

The Prince stirred in his sleep, and King Heath lifted his son out of the cradle to swaddle him in his cloak and press him close to his heart.

The Queen rose from her throne, and her instructions rang loud and steady.  “Draw all curtains shut immediately.  Guards - !”

But it was far too late.  People were dropping - nobles and servants across the Hall were falling to their knees, slowly losing consciousness.  Some cried, others took up prayer again, before slipping away.  Trays clattered.  Wine cups spilled their contents and stained the tiles red.

Only a few week outcries were heard before the last few pairs of eyes among the guests and servants had closed.

_“It’s the Champion.”_

_“The Champion is coming.”_

_“God, help us!"_

A light started to burst from the stained-glass windows, illuminating the hall and casting its glow upon all still conscious - The Queen, King, and the Paladins.

Lance cursed and reached for his sword.  Hunk grabbed him by the wrist, his chest heaving with shallow breaths.

“Heath!” The Queen turned to the King, “Take the boy and - ”

“ - There will be no need for that, Allura.”

The voice was soft, and belonged to a man.  Or one who could pass for a man, if it were not for the winged shadows he cast behind him as he strode forth into the Hall, bringing the light along with him.

With each step of his leather boots, he turned more and more inhuman.  Horns pale as ivory grew from his head.  Grey smoke curled from under his cloak, and formed a clawed hand where his right arm should have ended.

The roaring tapestry lion seemed now almost comically tame, compared to him.

“Shiro,” Allura leveled, somehow magnificently unshaken, “What is the meaning of this?”

If the Champion had pretended not to notice Lance’s fingers round the hilt of his sword, then the Queen’s coldness was the first admission that he was, indeed, not wanted.

Aside from the lack of any invitation, of course.

In reality, it had been a ruthless slight; not inviting the Champion.  The King and Queen owed him nothing but gratitude, particularly since he was the very reason that they were on the throne, in the first place.

If the locals had not survived the War and seen the fighting, themselves, then the Champion would have been a being of myth and legend.  But even the most humble peasant knew that it was the Champion who had vanquished Zarkon the Conqueror singlehandedly, in the most literal sense of the word, and that it was the Champion who finally brought peace to the land by purging it of the evil Galra invaders.

Yet if the Champion had been taken aback by being confronted so brashly by the very people he once serviced, he did not show it.

Instead, he bowed his head in greeting, and said, “They will all wake up once I leave.  I apologize for the . . . scene, but I needed a private word - with all of you.”

Upon being met with stiff silence, he straightened and looked on at the King, who hid the infant swathed tight in his cloak, pressed to his chest and out of sight.

Steel gray eyes momentarily flickered over the bundle. “You seem downright heavy-hearted for a man with a Kingdom, a Queen, and a healthy heir.”

To which the King responded wearily, “Something tells me you don’t want to celebrate him with us, Your Excellency.”

“If only, Your Majesty.”

Heath pressed his son tighter.

Allura stepped in front of the pair, as if expecting that she would need to shield them with her own body. “What can we do for you, Shiro?”

Shiro remained unimpressed. “You can stop hiding his son from me, and let me look the boy in the face.”

“ _His_ son?” challenged Allura, “You mean _our_ \- ”

“We cannot afford to _lie_ to each other, Allura!” Shiro’s taught words echoed through the Hall, and in their urgency, the strain in them betrayed what everyone feared - he was there to do something he most certainly did not want to do.  He turned his head to the Paladins he once trained. “ - None of us.  Not about this.”

“Shiro, _please!”_

It had been Pidge who cried out.  Hunk was holding her back by the shoulder, hunched over and whispering words of comfort into her ear, despite looking like he was about to be sick.

That was when Heath stepped out from behind Allura.

No one knew what he was thinking - if he simply had enough, or did not believe Shiro would do his son any harm, but he came up to the Champion with the child wrapped in his arms, ignoring Allura’s words of protest.

“It’s alright,” he called placatingly to the Paladins before turning to Shiro.  “You want to meet my boy?  Please, do, old friend.  It’s high time.”

And as if it were a thing of Fate, the boy shifted.  He turned his face from his father’s chest, and blinking, he focused his calm, midnight-blue gaze dead into the eyes of the Champion.

All stood still.

Shiro looked on, breath caught in his lungs.  He had grown used to many things in his years, but the way this child looked up at him was not one of them.  The closest feeling he could recall to it were the times he had steel wedged through his chest; not painful, but decidedly foreign.  It was the shock of finding something inside him that did not belong.

The boy was neither smiling, nor crying.  He simply stared on, unimpressed, as if to say, “So it’s you. Well, _now_ what?”

Not tearing his eyes off the Prince, he finally found his voice again.  “This is Krolia’s son.”

Krolia - _The Blade Who Wouldn’t Bend._   Memories filled his head of watching her sword clash in battle, her stern eyes and voice, cool as ice.

The Galran who slew Lotor, ending Zarkon’s bloodline.

This was her son.

“That, he is,” admitted Heath.

The warrior's words came clipped and calm. “Who helped her? Who helped her conceive?”

Mercilessly calm.

At Heath's silence, Shiro looked up from the baby, his eyes hardening.

“Speak.”

“How can you be sure?” Heath murmured.

And to the astonishment of all who were present, Shiro answered, “Because she came to me, first.”

It was the one and only time in Krolia’s life that she had begged.  A Galra, desperate enough to come to the Champion for help.  _A child could unite our people,_ she had said.  He should have smote her on the spot, there as she knelt before him, that night under the stars.  But Shiro had turned her away, informing her in parting that he would see her on the battlefield.

Shiro remained stone-faced.  “I will ask one last time, and if you do not give me a name, I will force the Truth from you.  Who did Krolia turn to next?”

“Haggar.”

The very sound of the name made Shiro’s blood freeze in his veins.  “Do you SEE where this has brought us?  She sold her soul to a witch and let her curse her body, and now I am expected to just walk away from a Galran royal on the throne, hoping he does not take after her?  _How_ could Krolia be so selfish!”

“Selfish?” Heath repeated, his voice thick, “Is that why she’s not with us today?”  As Shiro stayed quiet, the man’s words became increasingly choked. “You are referring to the same warrior who used her last bit of strength to behead Lotor!  A warrior who turned against her own kind to fight in the name of what’s good.”

The Prince let out a troubled whimper from his Father’s arms, and Allura laid a hand on Heith’s shoulder, her elfin features drawn and conflicted.

Nonetheless, Heath persisted - a mild-mannered man now beside himself with hurt - “ _A warrior ten times more noble than you, sir!  And I hope to whatever Gods there are above that my son takes after her.”_

Words that come forth from the very core of one’s soul sometimes have their own kind of magic. At that moment, even the Champion flinched before them.

The Original Paladin, the Wielder of Light, itself - shaken by the words of a mortal.

“Shiro,” Hunk called tentatively, “Come on.  You’re not about to kill a baby.  How is this even on the table?  We found solutions, before - ”

“We can’t just exile royals.  Do I need to remind you all of how that went with the last half-Galran Prince?”

The sharp edge to Shiro's tone was well-justified.  Lotor had returned with an army.

Shiro pinned his glare on Allura, demanding “Didn’t _any_ of this occur to you?”

The Galra had launched a massacre on her people, generations ago.  And yet, she was so hell-bent on protecting the child that could threaten the same horrors all over again.

To that, Allura held her head, high and proud as ever, and announced, “Not for a moment. I protect children, I don’t harm them.”  Something in his expression made Allura shake her silver head, her heart filled with nothing but heavy sorrow.  She allowed it to mourn the passing of a friend, who was yet still alive.

One of the strongest, bravest, most principled and kindhearted souls - turned to stone under the weight of the world.

“Shiro . . ." she asked, “What have you become?”

War makes people not recognize themselves, and Shiro had been fighting for centuries.

In Selflessness, he lost his Self.

The baby was perched upright in his father’s arms, craning his head to stare expectantly at Shiro with wide eyes.  Shiro could not look at him.

They were right. He knew they were right before he stepped foot in the Castle that night.

Resolute, the Champion approached both father and son, and spoke:

“You will send him away.  Growing up, he will not know what he is.  He will be heavily disciplined, and subjected to the same modest life as any foot-soldier.  He is to understand hardship, hunger, and suffering.  He will also learn to value others, and to work in a team.  If he grows into a man of integrity, I will personally come for him on his eighteenth birthday, and return him to you.  But  _beware_ \- "

He began to shine again with the light of quintessence.  The oath was spoken, and then came the curse. 

_“From that day, he is not to ever harm another human being - intentionally or otherwise.  As a man, if he EVER spills a single drop of another person’s blood, he will drop DEAD where he stands.”_

“No - !”  They heard a gasp from the King.  There, the light was enveloping the bundle in his arms, as th King tried shielding the Prince with his own cloak, in vain.

Once the casting ebbed, Pidge was the first to recover.  “So if he is ever attacked, he can’t fight back?”

Shiro was unmoved.  “He should spend his life making more friends than enemies.”

“What if he accidentally injures another?” asked Hunk.

“Then he should learn to be careful and considerate of others.  If you want to shut him away, then give him to the Priesthood. I won’t risk any dormant aggression being awakened.”

Lance clenched his fists in frustration. “But a true King has to fight!” he protested, “How can his subjects _possibly_ respect him if he doesn’t defend his Kingdom alongside them?”

“Then you have zero understanding of what it means to be a true King.”

Finished with arguing, and finished with feeling the too-wide, _too-aware_ eyes of That Child slicing through him, the Champion turned his back on the King and Prince.

He stepped down from the raised platform, and over sleeping bodies and upturned goblets, he made his way to the alcove where the window had been cracked.  In one fluid motion, he raised the arm of smoke. All at once, the window shattered completely, as if an invisible force had been catapulted through it, into the night.

In his parting words, the Champion stood tall and unyielding as ever.  The light he cast upon the room began to dim, until the remnants of it were seeping away from his scarred face and winding horns.

“I’ll be watching.  But in the end, the choice is up to him.”

With that, he vanished from the Castle of Lions, leaving nothing but silver wisps of smoke curling along the tiles.

And there would have been a period of stunned silence, had they not heard a thin little whimper.

The baby started to sob.  Allura cursed.  Hunk was having trouble breathing.

“Guys – ?” asked Lance.

“ – _Just perfect_ , now the guests are going to wake up covered in – ”

“Guys?”

“ – _and the window!_ –  ”

“Everybody, _LISTEN!”_ hollered Lance, “I didn’t give my BLESSING yet!”

It took the rest several ticks for the revelation to sink in.

Then, Pidge practically lunged at him in relief, grabbing him by the shoulders. “Lance, thank GOD!  What are you going to say?”

Lance frowned. There was no undoing a curse from someone so powerful.  There was only working around it, somehow . . .

“You’d better think fast,” called Allura, bent over Coran’s sleeping frame, “they’ll all be waking up any moment.”

That was the instant Lance had an idea.  It was too bad, however, that Lance’s ideas were always too creative for humanity’s own good.

“Sleeping! That’s exactly it!” Lance breathed, “You know what?  He won’t die on the spot, if he spills blood.  He’ll just . . . fall asleep!  Pass out!”

He strolled over to the boy, nearly tripping over some lord’s particularly fat body.  Then, he reached out with his fingers and grasped the wailing baby by the hand.  “Keith. Buddy.  May you have the gift . . . of a second chance.  You owe me, pal.”

The baby cried harder.  Satisfied, Lance patted him on the head and turned towards his team members.

Pidge blanked, as if she failed to catch the punch-line of a joke.  “That’s your loophole?”

“You mean like, deep sleep?” asked Hunk,  “Un-wakeable sleep?  Sleep powerful enough to stop time?  That kind of sleep?”

“Yes, that kind of sleep!” snapped Lance.  He was not getting the reaction he had expected.

Hunk exhaled, chest falling.  “ _What a lucky_ – wait.  Hold on . . . ” his eyebrows pinched together in worry.  “When does he wake up?”

The Hall turned so quiet again, one could hear a gold-piece drop.

“Well _shit_ ,” sighed Lance.  “Um, Queen Allura . . . ” He turned to the Queen, but nearly had second thoughts when he saw her face.  She looked rather like she wanted to hurl a goblet at him.

“What’s the cure to an enchanted coma?”


	2. Once Upon a Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One hundred days passed, and then one hundred more.

One hundred days passed, and then one hundred more.

The rains had been mild and the crop yield high, carrying promises of a plentiful harvest.  In the castle, the Prince had taken his first steps unassisted, determined to reach his father’s arms.  All the while, the King and Queen heard nothing from the Champion.  And so they did nothing, and so they hoped.

Until there came a night when the King jerked awake in his bedchamber, soaked cold with sweat.  He could still hear that familiar voice that had woken him - it beat against his ears like fists on the skin of a war drum.

_“Heath!  It is time.”_

And then, an echoing wail. 

A baby was crying.  His baby. He ran into the corridor, chasing the voice with torch in hand, until he burst into the nursery to find young Romelle plastered to the wall and pointing at the crib in terror. 

His son’s eyes were glowing gold.

_It was time, indeed._

There was nothing the King and Queen could do, but call upon the Paladins. They had the trio tie their horses to a carriage, and take the boy far, far away from the capital.  It would be an exhausting journey.  The Paladins were to travel through dense forests, across the steppes, and down into the arid heat of the valleys until they could finally drop the boy off at a secluded abbey on the very outskirts of a small desert village.

However hearts ached that morning for the Prince, no one shed a tear for him – not even the King.  He was too preoccupied with counting the wisps of hair on his son’s head, with wondering if the boy’s chin will grow out to be a little more pointed, in a few years time – like his mother’s.

All too soon, he was left watching the sunrise as the very last piece of his heart rode away into the horizon, swaddled in silks.  Heath then mounted his horse and rode back across the castle grounds - past the temple, through the courtyard, and into the cemetery, where knights and nobles were buried on the very edge of the outer bailey. There, hidden by thorn and vine, was a secret door that opened to a secluded, overgrown garden where his Love laid at rest after a life of fighting. 

He knelt at her headstone. After sharing a few words of sorrow so deep, they could only be understood between a mother and father, he withdrew a dagger from his cloak.

It was an ancient and irreplaceable weapon, with violet sigils carved into the luxite. As Heath set it down and knelt at the foot of Krolia’s grave, for a brief moment, the blade appeared to catch a pair of narrowed gray eyes reflected in the light of the rising sun.

It did not surprise him.  He knew he was not alone, from the start.

“Each Blade of Marmora had one.  Only the bravest Galra who’ve learned true self-discipline and sacrifice can activate its real form.  Krolia called it her spindle.” 

He beamed at the headstone.  “It was the only joke she could ever pull off.”

“You want to know my son’s true character?” he then asked, once back on his feet and dusting the dirt off his knees.  “Give it to him, while he can still use it.  You’ll see.” 

The next time Heath visited his true love’s grave, the knife was gone.

 

* * *

 

One warm summer’s night nearly four years later, a large shadow shrouding the stars with outspread wings flew across farmland and over barren valley. The outline was faster than a shooting star, and no less majestic – though no mortal soul with an untrained eye could possibly have noticed it, in the black of the heavens.  It soared all the way to the mountain range on the very edge of the Kingdom, just on the border of Altean land where the grass began to dot the slopes again.  There, a river flowed down the slopes in a small waterfall, and over an enormous, slowly-churning water wheel built into the side of a cliff.

The dark outline beat its wings, and landed in a flurry of scattering pebbles and dust.  It shrank, shifted, and as material formed in the air to drape over its body, it called out: 

“Matt!”

The call echoed through the valley, sending a rush of smaller wings flying as a flurry of bats scrambled out of the surrounding caves. 

_“Matt!”_

A second time, and Shiro was answered only with the rush of running water.

“MATTHEW HOLT!”

Finally, a jade glow emerged from one of the caverns above.  Footsteps, and out trudged a disheveled young man raising a flaming green torch with one hand and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with the other. “Yell a little louder,” he called down, “for the ogres in the back . . . ”

“I need your help.”

One of the countless qualities shared by the Holt siblings was that it had taken entire trans-dimensional wars to force a coherent sentence through their teeth before high-noon.  After years of enslavement alongside Shiro in the Galran realm and his services in the Rebellion, a life sequestered with his work had left Matt falling out of necessary habits. 

Humans always were quicker to adapt to comfort than to hardship.

The young man yawned and waved his torch aimlessly, the flames nearly singing his hair.  “Working hours are from sunrise to – ”

Matt squinted down at the bundle Shiro raised above his head.  “ - Are those the complete Olkari texts on the Neuroscience of Metal-Manipulation, or are you just happy to see me?" 

“For your trouble,” pressed Shiro, “I had a . . . dream, and I need to see into the water-wheel.”

Matt groaned, “What can you possibly see if it’s dark as the inside of a yalmor’s – ”

_“Matt!”_

“Fine, fine – come on up.”

The water-wheel in question was a mill constructed by Matt to generate quintessence with a combination of hydro-power and Shiro’s own enchantments. The occasional witches and magic-folk brave enough to journey as far as the mountains would pay Matt for access to divine fortunes from the churning waters.  Shiro’s visions were by far the most vivid.

Earlier, Shiro had been flying across the other side of the Kingdom listening to whispers in the night.  Whispered promises, whispered prayers in his name, whispered words of dissent or revolt. Suddenly, deep in his chest under scale and bone, his dragon’s heart clenched so painfully, he nearly tumbled to the earth in shock.

_“I HATE YOU!”_

Screamed a voice, hurdling up from the back of his mind until it rang in his ears loud as canon-fire and hot as spilled blood.  It had drowned out hundreds upon thousands.

_“I HATE YOU!”_

The certainty of whose voice it was had made a visceral dread swell in Shiro’s gut.

He would be about four years old by now.  A toddler, barely old enough to grasp the true meaning of such words as “hate” but wielding them with such curdling fury in his voice . . .

And Shiro, himself.  Choosing to fly off in attempts to watch the boy through a curtain of water instead of going down below into the god-forsaken valley cloister to deal with him, in person. One of the most powerful beings in the land.  Afraid of a baby.

At the mill-stream, Matt raised the gate holding back the water at the fall.  The current began to rush with double the force, and the oaken paddles of the wheel turned all the faster.

Faster, and faster, until the water turned to froth as white as the smoke dogging Shiro’s every footstep.

Shiro peered into the foam.

_Eyes._

_Yellow eyes with irises violet and dark as the far side of the moon._

_A boy with hair black as ink and angry tear-streaks on his face._

_Fangs.  The child’s small fangs pierced the delicate flesh of his rosebud lips as he hissed and spit “YOU KILLED HIM!”_

_The boy was tied to a table._

“Matt,” panted Shiro, “Matt, let down the sluice.”

 

* * *

 

 

He arrived at the abbey melted into the streak of a moonbeam. Invisible, he watched as the priestesses hovered, chanting over the screaming yellow-eyed boy as his claws scraped the wood under him.

They were performing an exorcism.

Without a second thought, Shiro raised his right arm and sent a thunderclap reverberating through the stone walls.

The humans stilled, and exchanged glances.

“Rain?” 

“The linens!”

“Check on the horses!”

In a moment, the room was clear and the door was barred shut, leaving a pale whimpering boy still tied down to the table.  Though his little ribcage was still wracked with heaving breaths, his eyes were cooling until the irises expanded and the whites shown through.

“Red . . . ”

Something about seeing the child strapped down turned the ache in Shiro’s chest into something sharper, angrier.

With a flick of his wrist, he let the knots slide loose and melted through the lightbeams on the door, lifting the latch on his way past.  After a few minutes standing in the narrow winding stairwell, he heard a hesitant _creak,_ and watched the door inch open.

Little feet padded down the stone steps and Shiro hovered behind the boy, taking care he did not trip on the hem of his shift.

The child knew exactly which corners to turn so that no one caught him in passing.  He tip-toed his way to the back of the abbey, and slipped through a door leading outdoors.

There was nothing for Shiro to do but follow, though he knew what was on the other side as soon as the smell hit his nose. 

Outdoors was a small courtyard filled with rotting meat and bone. It was where the people threw their waste.  A few crows sifting through the piles looked up, and took off into the night.

The place looked and smelled like an abandoned battlefield that had never been cleared. 

The boy, paying no mind, padded intently through the boneyard on bare feet.  He set his eyes on a small lump of fur on the top of a pile, and let out a gasp.

_“Red!”_

Then, impossibly, he dropped to his knees and started to crawl. 

Shiro was struck dead.  He stared, wheeled around to check that no human was behind him, and looked back towards the child, crawling over the wreckage.

He came closer, and noticed that the creature on top of the carrion was a rat.

Quickly, he let slide his invisibility and darted to the boy to grab him by the cloth on his back.

“Don’t touch that.”

The boy yelped, and turned to look up at him.  Though to Shiro’s knowledge, he must have appeared as a complete stranger to Keith, the boy simply glared at him through red-rimmed eyes and batted at his hand, “Go ‘way!”

Shiro bent over to speak in his ear.  “Rats are dirty.  They carry plague, and you’ll get sick.”

Initially, Shiro supposed Keith would cause a commotion, fight back or make to pull away.  However, the boy paused, clenching his fists and in frustration as Shiro guided him off of the piles.

“We need to wash your hands.”

The boy’s eyes stayed trained to the filthy, abandoned dead rat, until they welled with tears again and he dropped to the ground and thumped the dirt with his fists.

“I _HATE_ them!” 

Shiro paused, giving up his absentminded attempts to wipe dirt off the back of the child’s smock.  After a moment, he asked:

“Why?” 

Silence, apart form the boy’s broken breathing.

Until the boy finally stomped his foot and yelled, “They just - just threw him out the window!  Its not _fair!_ He lived here, too!"

Well.  A friend is a friend, after all.

Frowning at the child, then back at the animal carcass, then back at the child again, Shiro hesitated before muttering, “ _She_ did.”

Keith let out a sniffle, before looking up at Shiro, confused. “What?”

“The rat was female.”

“Oh."  He dragged a dirty sleeve over his nose and blew into the fabric.

Shiro winced, and looked up at the heavens.  They were not enough to distract him – the sky was murky with clouds.

Stars above, it smelled.

Shiro sighed and leaned back against the stone wall, at a loss.  He had fought in wars.  He had trained armies.  He had killed, harnessed magic, and traveled across worlds.  But never had he needed to deal with a crying child and his dead rat.

He had been too much of a coward to keep an eye on the boy over the years, dreading what he would be obligated to do if the human in him did not win out.  Now, he realized he was sneaking glances behind his shoulder out of a duty to _protect_ him.

“Bye, Red,” sniffled Keith brokenly, under his breath. 

Not knowing what to do to humor the boy, Shiro hummed and trained his eyes to the sky.

“She won’t be alone, at least,” he said, “Voltron’s out.”

Below him, he felt Keith shift, and glare up at him.

“Do you like the stars?” asked Shiro.

Keith stared up, and giving up, he dropped his gaze dejectedly.

“Can’t see ‘em.”

In response, Shiro reached out with his cursed arm and cleared the clouds out of the sky.  They rolled away, and the stars gleamed down to greet them.

He thought they looked a bit reproachful, that night.

“Look again.”

Keith rubbed his eyes, and looked.  His lashes fluttered in surprise.

Shiro stooped down, beckoning the boy over. “See that cluster?” 

He took the boy by the hand, and raised it to point with his small, grubby finger. “One, two, three, four, five,” he counted, “Together, they form Voltron - the legendary defender.”

Keith’s breath hitched.  “Defender of what?” he snapped impatiently.

“Rats.”

Shiro blurted it without thinking.  It was a mindless retort - the type of humor he would use with a band of warriors, not with a child in mourning.  Allura would wring his neck if she knew. Krolia was likely cursing him from the grave. Mentally berating himself, he prepared for another fit of tears – or perhaps a well-deserved kick to the shin.

Neither happened.

The child’s sharp little chin never dimpled, his brows did not furrow.

It started with a tiny giggle, and soon enough the boy was covering his face with his sleeve and snorting into the material with laughter.

Shiro teasingly pried apart the boy’s hands, making him reluctantly peek into the man’s face with shining eyes. 

Keith buried his head into Shiro’s shoulder, hiccupping.  As Shiro rubbed his back, he murmured stories about the stars while the boy listened in silence.  Sleep fell heavy on Keith, that night, as he drifted off to tales of brave heroes and their hard-won battles in faraway worlds.

And the Champion . . .

. . . The Champion worried.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Matt: "Wait a second . . . You've had that book on you for a while! You were keeping it as leverage for a favor!"
> 
> Shiro: "Um. Tell your parents I say hi!" - flies away -


End file.
